I woke up, today was a normal day. The birds weren't singing as usual and the sun was slipping through the cracks of my curtains like honey- beating hot rays through my window even though it was only 7.00 am and my curtains were still closed. I swing my legs out of bed and slip them into my tatty old blue slippers and skip down the stairs, already sweating from the intense heat.

"Morning" I shout sleepily as I make my way into our tiny kitchen, no reply. That's funny, I think to myself, my parents are almost always making breakfast by now. I shrug off the thought that is nagging the back of my mind and go into the cupboard to grab a bowl and find that they never put on the dishwasher after they came back from work. The thought is edging to the front of my mind as I dash upstairs, since the sun flares struck the world everyone has tried their hardest to act like it is not a huge deal or something but no not us, I am what people call a 'munie'.

I am immune to a virus that is wiping out most of the world's population. I only know this because a few months ago when the first cranks started turning up in the streets of New York City from the mountains where the virus had been unleashed, I happened to be walking back home from our makeshift school set up in a small caravan on a side street. I was 2 blocks from my house when a crank came out of nowhere and started attacking me, it bit me on the leg but I managed to escape and I limped all the way back to my house. I thought that was the end for me but as my parents attended to me over the course of a week I showed no signs of symptoms. I had heard the rumours but I thought it was fake, I was immune. My parents were scared so they had to hide this, I could tell no one but I guess the people had came to get me anyways.

I reach my parents room and bang the door, once, twice. Still no reply, that's when I hear the front door slam. I freeze , my heart racing and I take a peep down the stairs and find a tall lady with blonde hair and a man with grey hair standing in the porch. they are both wearing white lab coats with the word "W.I.C.K.E.D" emblazoned into the front pocket. This is not what makes me panic the most, its the fact that the man is holding a big looking gun. I run up to the attic as quietly as I can, just as I was instructed to do if they ever came for me. I pull up the floorboard which is closest to the window and climb into the space underneath, a space that is perfect for me to fit into- but not comfortably. I pull the floorboard back over my head and hear them calling out words I can't quite hear. I try to slow my breathing- worried they may hear my rasping breaths and pounding heart. I shuffle around and try to get into a more comfortable position when I hear a crinkle of paper under my foot, I crane my neck in the tiny space and see there is a small square of folded paper with my name scrawled in my mother's sloppy handwriting on the front. Picking it up I bang my head painfully, cursing under my breath,quickly tucking the note into the inside pocket of my khaki jacket.

I hold my breath, praying that they didn't hear me. I know that there's only a slight chance that they didn't hear. That slight chance evaporates when,with no warning, the floor board is yanked upwards and a pair of strong hands lift me by the scruff of my neck onto the floor...